


Natural

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Android Desmond Miles, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 02:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16053437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: 26 years after he died, Shaun takes what remains of Desmond Miles and puts it in an android body.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge

Desmond comes to knowing that he'd died. It's all there in neat black and white; Desmond Miles, born 13th of March 1987 – died 21st of December 2012. There are even pictures and autopsy report and everything, a video file that plays for a moment, detailing Abstergo's recovery of his remains – how they remark on optimal conditions for DNA sample recovery.

It's a bit weird but informative, to just have it all in his head. It probably should feel stranger than it does, though – because he has the impression this isn't how it should be. Or rather, it wasn't how it used to be.

The files he has on himself aren't the only things there. He knows other things – there are other…  _documents_ in his head. File on Lucy Stillman pops up next: born 1988, exact date unknown, died 10th of October 2012. Beside that pops up the file on Rebecca Crane, born 3rd of February 1984, died on 13th of May, 2032. Shaun Hastings, born 16th of November, 1985. And then William Miles, born 1948, exact date unknown, died 1st of November 2021.

The date now is 16th of December, 2038.

"That should do for a start," a male voice mutters and there's a beep. "Here goes bloody nothing, probably…"

Surge runs through Desmond and things bit by bit initialise. He becomes aware of his extremities – hands, legs, fingers, toes, all flexing, all hanging down. He gets the sense of weight, his head tipped forward, his back bowed. He's hanging on something by his back and gravity is pulling him forward. It's like there's an hand wrapped around his spine, fingers of a claw machine, it's holding him suspended by his back. Oddly, it doesn't hurt.

Then he can see. At first it's just white light but as he becomes aware of his eyelids and his ability to blink, he sees more. A room. Lamps aimed at his face, dark ceiling beyond them – his eyes adjust and he can see the stone of the walls, the wooden supports, beams, running across the ceiling, the lamps hanging from them. LEDs, he thinks as he peers at the lights, and then there's a sound, a creak, and he turns to look down.

Below him there's a man in a wheelchair, with what looks like tablet computer sitting in his lap, on top of a quilt. The man's hair is shockingly white, as is his short beard – but Desmond knows him, knows that expression even though the wrinkles are new, knows the sharp eyes behind the angular glasses. The man is even wearing a blazer and a sweater vest.

"Shaun," Desmond says, blinking, and the man almost throws the tablet computer at him in his shock.

"Bloody fucking hell," the man says, the wheelchair jerking under him as he leans back sharply, the redistribution of weight giving him hint of motion, making the wheels turn. Desmond looks down – he can calculate the expended energy and the achieved momentum. Odd. "Desmond?"

"Yeah?" Desmond asks, trailing his eyes down to the wheelchair's wheels, to the footrests. Shaun is wearing fuzzy slippers, they peek just past the faded quilt.

Desmond's eyelid twitches – in the back of his head, there is a medical file. Shaun's. Early signs of Osteoporosis, and couple of broken bones too many in his medical history. Bad back, with spinal disk herniation and nerve damage – it had been fixed when Shaun had been in his late forties, but he'd ended up in wheelchair at fifty one anyway, due to a broken hip which had triggered the early osteoporosis – he can walk with two canes, but it's painful. He's on nearly fifteen different medication, for various issues.

It seems twenty six years wasn't long enough for humanity to fix the effects of time and aging.

"Are you – " Shaun starts to say but then doesn't seem to know how to continue for a moment. He fiddles with the tablet and then clears his throat. "Do you – do you know what you are?"

CyberLife android model TR300 – no, model PL600, no, model AP700 – no. Desmond reads in his manufacture log and it's a mess, like he's put together from mismatched parts. He  _is_ put together from mismatched parts. TR300 torso, modified, with some PL600 parts, arms and legs from AP700. Nothing on operational personality or AI-UI, his central matrix is empty. Inside his guts, his biocomponents come from nine different android lines.

Shaun must have built him from spare parts. There are no AI protocols which part of him thinks should be there. His hard drives are empty. He's installed with basic sub-process systems for movement and biocomponent processing – everything else is Shaun's handiwork. The files Desmond knows, of which there are hundreds of thousands, come from Shaun's own files and databases, accumulated over decades. The guy had just dumped all his data in Desmond's head.

His personality though – Desmond Miles. That comes from a DNA file. Subject 17.

Desmond lifts his head and Shaun swallows, watching him as he examines himself. His hands look like human hands, his legs look like human legs. Humanoid android, with synthetic liquid skin and everything. He can see the list of components that make the body, from the 3.4 litres of thirium to the minute biocomponents, the metal of his bones, the silicon of his plumbing. Everything works pretty damn well, considering it's all mismatched parts.

He's not made by Abstergo, though, which is interesting. None of his parts come with Abstergo's logo – it's all CyberLife, whatever that is.

He's a robot. An  _android._

Desmond Miles the person had died over twenty years ago. He even remembers how – he remembers the Grand Temple. Not the sensation of dying, though, that didn't get written in the Third Helix thankfully, but he remembers the Eye, he remembers the  _why._  He remembers everything.

Nice to know the world is still here, twenty six years later. Looks like he succeeded.

Desmond runs the palm of his right hand over the arm of his left – no tattoo there, and no hair on his skin, it's completely smooth. Then he looks at Shaun. "Why?" The information is lacking in his files – why Shaun would do this. Resurrect a dead man like this.

Shaun swallows, fiddling with the tablet and then setting down in his lap. "Because why the fuck not? I recovered the DNA files from Abstergo before they wiped the servers clean. Yours… bloody hell," he mutters and then sets his hands on the rims of the wheelchair's wheels, expertly turning the thing around. "Can you run down your functions or something, make sure you work alright? Do a systems check."

Desmond tilts his head and then does as asked – the systems check takes him about quarter of a second. Everything comes up mismatched, but functional. Not all of it's new – the TR300 torso is four years old. The biocomponents on other hand are new, less than month old. "No internet connection," he comments. It's the only thing that comes up lacking – the android model should be in constant connection with the cloud service for system updates and error reports and stuff.

"Yeah, I turned that off," Shaun says and spins the wheels, turning away from the table where Desmond is sitting. "Safer that way while you're still getting used to things. Might've been a shock."

Desmond watches him quietly for a moment, wondering. He lacks in the right files and protocols, he doesn't know if what Shaun had done is allowed or not. Was it like jail breaking cell phones and gaming consoles had been back in the day, or…? Desmond's body is probably Shaun's purchased property – but the components and the systems would be copyrighted to the manufacturer. Right?

The right user manual and licensing data is odd thing to miss.

Shaun turns back to him, and then makes a face. "Let me get you down from there," he mutters and reaches for a controller wired into the rig Desmond hangs on with an actual wire. Desmond looks down as he claw holding his spine extends and his bare feet touch the floor – he can feel it, there's metal grating down there, it feels cold. The claw behind him releases his spine, a wire comes loose from his neck and Desmond knows – he's autonomous.

Shaun hands him a black framed mirror, nodding at his face. With a blink Desmond accepts it and then looks at himself. "I did my best to get it as close as I could," Shaun says, while Desmond tilts his face to the side. His face is a bit longer than he remembers, bit wider and his nose is slightly shorter but it's close to what he remembers. "There was limited selection on faces and modifying them is not easy. But I think I got your skin right?"

"It's close enough," Desmond decides. It looks familiar enough that the differences don't bother him – though he's not sure they could bother him even if they were more severe. His brain is a computer, after all – no chemicals. No emotions, except simulated ones – and right now, he's simulating none.

"Guess that's good," Shaun says and leans back, looking at him. Desmond looks back.

Shaun is in his fifties now. It's not that old and aside from the injuries he's aged well – got that distinguished old professor look about him. "Now what?" Desmond asks. Part of him wants to ask about his job, if he has one. Something Shaun hadn't quite managed to rid of him – or maybe he hadn't managed to instil more human sense of simple  _belonging._  Humans could just be and have that be enough. Androids and machines require a functional purpose, or they're useless. Probably.

Shaun doesn't answer immediately, watching him, stroking a hand over his white beard. "That's all you have to ask?" he asks then.

Desmond shakes his head. Everything else is in his files, and now he's accessing all of them. What happened after his death – the Grand Temple protected the Earth, Shaun, Rebecca and William Miles ran away, Abstergo didn't catch them, life moved on. Desmond Miles' body was left behind. Abstergo fell into hard times after the End of the Earth that Never Came. Desmond Miles' DNA was studied, more ancestors were uncovered – some of them were turned into video games. The back and forth between Assassins and Templars continued. They kept on fighting for the Pieces of Eden. Juno surfaced occasionally and caused trouble. Things changed, and stayed the same.

Abstergo went bankrupt. The biggest company now is CyberLife, probably.

Desmond tilts his head and turns away from that, it's a dead end. He concentrates instead on personal files. Rebecca had died in line of duty. Bill Miles had had a heart attack. Lucy had been buried in Rome, though Desmond Miles had known that much before his death. Of the old crew, only Shaun survives now, and he's not been in contact with Assassins in years. His skills aren't applicable anymore – the days of the Animus are in the past now, all the known Pieces of Eden either hunted or destroyed or locked up. Either way, the hunt of Isu tech is over.

Where Shaun and Desmond currently are is clear in his files too. Shaun owns a house in Detroit of all places – he's teaching in a university now under the name of Sean Hasting. Somehow, that simple change has managed to keep any remaining templars who might know about him not looking too deeply into him. They're currently in the basement of the house, in Shaun's private and probably illegal laboratory, where Shaun had put his body together from pieces and put Desmond Miles' DNA files in it, to form it's personality,

And Shaun, Desmond thinks, had no reason to resurrect the memories of Desmond Miles in form of Desmond the Android – he'd done it just because he could. Maybe because he felt guilty. His medical file does include a psychiatric report – PTSD and survivor's guilt galore.

Nothing to ask about that either.

Desmond looks down and shakes his head, handing the mirror back. "You dumped all your files in my head," he says. "I already know all the answers to most every question I could ask."

Shaun frowns. "Alright," he says. " _And_?"

"And?" Desmond asks, tilting his head a little.

"And do you have anything to say to me?" Shaun demands impatiently, squeezing the hand rests of his chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Desmond looks at him – he can see Shaun's heartbeat, calculate his respiration – he's having a stress response. Worried, nervous even, pupils contracted, bracing for a blow. He's expecting Desmond to freak out, accuse him of something.

"It's… good to see you, Shaun," Desmond says after a moment.

Shaun stares at him hard for a moment, like looking for some sort of lie or trick. Then he lets out a slow, shuddering breath. "You too," he says quietly. "It's good to see you too, Desmond."

Desmond looks down at himself and then looks up. "Couldn't give me any clothing, huh?" he comments. "Are you, in your words, taking the piss?"

Shaun snorts and relaxes a little. "I'm an old man in a wheelchair," he says. "You'll find I take the piss whenever I can." He hesitates for a moment and then nods to the elevator. "Come on. Let's get you something to wear."

* * *

 

Maybe he should be sad. Desmond Miles had died, after all – and while he was dead for the last twenty six years, life moved on. Other people died. His father died, his mother died – Rebecca died. Shaun grew older. He missed out on all of that. He should feel sad.

He doesn't.

Shaun has done well for himself, despite everything, despite his poorly health. He broke free from the shadow of the Assassins and made a life for himself. He has a stable well paying job, he has a nice, well furnished house designed for wheelchair access…

"Used to have an android here too," Shaun says. "I mean, other than you, but… times changed." Desmond tilts his head at that and Shaun shrugs. "There's a reason I did this now and not back when androids were first created – though can't say I wasn't tempted back then. It just didn't feel… right back then. Now, now it's different."

"Are you going to actually explain or are you going to make me play the guessing game?" Desmond asks, tilting his head a little.

Shaun shrugs, looking a bit uneasy. "Figure I'll just let you have online access and figure it out yourself – easier that way. And you, uh… shouldn't get my bias on the matter."

Desmond frowns a little at that, confused.

"It's to do with androids, you know… like you," Shaun says, fiddling with a tablet. "And I know this is all exciting and weird for you but – there's gonna be procedures about this. And I'm already probably breaking all of them. So you do your own research on it, and get back to me."

"Research on  _what_?"

"The robot revolution," Shaun shrugs and holds out the tablet. "Interface with this – it'll activate your online connections and permissions and all that."

Desmond lifts a hand before he's even sure what it is he's doing. Then he knows, and peels back his synthetic fluid skin, revealing the pure white of composite plastic that's his bare chassis. He lays his bared hand on the tablet and downloads the protocols. The transfer is instant.

[NETWORK ACCESS GRANTED] floats in front of him and then he is part of a network. It's not like the internet though – this is completely wireless and about three hundred times faster than any internet connection he'd ever seen in life. All he has to think of a term and he already knows the answer.

CyberLife started development in 2018 – first androids went into production 2022. By 2038, they'd proliferated the whole of US, taking over millions of jobs. 50% of households had a personal home assistant android, 23% had two. Militaries of the world had already adopted hundreds of thousands to millions of androids in their forces. UN alone used three hundred thousand androids as international peace force. US has a lot more. Only few countries had none – Canada, strangely, is one of them. They were still arguing over the issues of human rights concerning androids when the Deviant Movement begun.

It started on 6th of November, 2038 – by 13th, they'd occupied most of Detroit and the current president – Christina Warren, liberal democrat and a former internet celebrity – called for a ceasefire. Androids and humans have been negotiating human rights for androids ever since, with Markus, the leader of Deviant Androids on one side, and President Warren's Cabinet on the other.

Currently, though, androids are  _to be considered enjoying human rights until proven otherwise_.

It all reveals itself to Desmond in articles, in essays, news reports, interviews. Markus' transmission that changes everything, the peaceful marches, the recycling camps which are called something far worse now… it's all there, and then it's all in his head, almost instantly downloaded and instantly understood. The steps taken, the changes wrought – and the present situation.

Desmond blinks and looks at Shaun. "You made me now because now I will be considered a person?" he asks, just to make sure.

Shaun fiddles with the edge of his blanket and shrugs. "It didn't feel right before," he admits. "There was this drone we named after you and – never mind. It didn't feel right to put your DNA files into an android, because it would be just… a fake, a thing. Not alive. Now…"

"Now?"

"Now it would've been pretty bloody shitty of me  _not_ to do it, wouldn't it?" Shaun asks and looks up to him uncertainly. "I mean, you're not – not the original Desmond Miles maybe, but you're as much of him that survives, and that's already a lot. In essence, I had your spirit, and now the potential body was to be considered alive." He holds out two hands up, as if holding something. "It just seemed wrong to not do it, at this point."

Yeah, and guilt didn't play part in it at all, of course. Desmond runs a hand over his neck, mildly curious about the feel of it – they made androids supple, giving them soft skin. A lot like human's. The synthetic liquid even has a human average temperature. Under it he can feel the hardness and the hollowness of an android body, though – there's a lot of air in android chassis. Servos take less space than muscles and sinews.

"Alright," Desmond says then. "I guess that something."

Shaun stares at him for a moment and then sighs. "Starting to remember why I hated you so much in the beginning," he mutters and then reaches over to poke at Desmond's knee. "Feel free to have an emotional reaction anytime now."

"Don't think I can do that, Shaun," Desmond says and then feels a little disappointed at how close to a space 2001 joke he came and how short he fell of it.

"Why the hell not?" Shaun asks, scowling. "Little anger, little gratitude, little bit of fucking confusion – it's not hard. Just fucking  _react_ somehow."

Desmond looks at him and sighs. "Sorry, Shaun," he says. "I can tell you made me well and I know that's something pretty cool, but…" he shakes his head. "I don't think I am a Deviant. So, no emotional reactions."

Shaun blinks. "You – what?" he demands incredulously, his voice rising an octave. "What do you mean – you're  _human_ , Desmond!"

"Human memories in an android body," Desmond corrects apologetically. It's only simulated regret – he remembers what it was like to actually feel emotions, what it  _felt_ for Desmond Miles. And this is not that. He's only pretending at most. "I'm sorry Shaun. I don't think I actually feel anything. I can simulate it, but…" but Desmond Miles wasn't a liar, so it doesn't seem fitting.

Shaun stares at him for a long moment, wide eyed with horror behind his glasses. "Fuck!" he then says, vehement and heartfelt and covers his face in his palms. Desmond stands by and waits as Shaun breathes through it, each inhale rasping like sandpaper. Disappointment, grief, rage – Desmond can  _understand_ them, part of him even knows how they feel like, but it's… kind of like only having seen colours on computer screens. It lacks the proper shades.

"Oh, it bloody fucking figures," Shaun finally groans and lets out a hysterical little laugh. "I make android out of a human and it comes out a fucking machine. Just fuck me right up."

"Sorry, Shaun," Desmond offers again.

"Yeah," Shaun says and runs a hand over his face before looking up at him. "Guess that explains why you haven't asked about your dad or anything. Just... nothing, nothing at all?" he asks, a little plaintive. "You don't want to do anything, don't want to ask anything? Go out there and live a life?"

Desmond gives him a look. He had been wondering about his purpose, his duty, his job. Android would have, and Desmond Miles had died for him – it seems…  _vital_ that he has a purpose. But he knows, logically, Shaun doesn't have one for him. Shaun didn't make him for a precise purpose. There's no rational reason to even ask.

"I don't…" Desmond starts and shakes his head. "Sorry. Maybe I'll think of something later but…"

Shaun stares at him for a moment and then turns away. "Fucking figures."

So, the very first thing Desmond does in his second life is cause disappointment. Yeah.

It figures.


	2. Chapter 2

For a few days, Desmond does… nothing much, really. He hangs around Shaun's house, feeling awkward mostly and that's about it. He offers to help Shaun with chores, help him around the house – guy is stuck in a wheelchair, he _needs_ help – but every time it just makes Shaun angry. "You're not a thing I own, you don't have to work for me!"

But then what is he supposed to do?

He can read Shaun's books – except he already has all of them downloaded in his memory. He can poke around the things that Shaun has scattered around the house, old artefacts and curiosities, but it makes Shaun irritated and suspicious and paranoid and eventually the old professor chases him off the relics with a feather duster, telling him not to touch anything. After that – what is there? Watching TV wasn't ever something Desmond Miles was interested in and Desmond the Android doesn't find any enjoyment in it either. What few magazines Shaun has around the house have online publications and he can read those in nanoseconds. All that's left is literally sitting around in Shaun's living room and doing… nothing.

Shaun in the meanwhile goes to work. He leaves every day half past seven am and he arrives sometime around three pm, looking tired after a day of teaching, but not overwhelmingly so. The first time he left, he gave Desmond nervous looks and asked several times "Are you going to be alright on your own?" and then telling him, "And don't bloody touch anything, I don't want to come back home and find you've trashed the place." Desmond assured he'd be fine and he'd be good, he'd keep his hands to himself.

Now Shaun just glances at him, sighs and goes. Desmond thinks he looks a little relieved to go. It's when he comes back that the tension rises.

There is a 75% chance that having Desmond around is elevating Shaun's stress levels. The man definitely isn't happy about the situation, definitely not satisfied with the outcome. Desmond came out wrong and it makes Shaun feel disappointed and guilty. The man sleeps uneasily and less and less as the days go by. The situation is far from optimal.

 Desmond tries to figure out what he should do about it. He's not a personal care android, not even a domestic assistant unit – he's not any sort of android _model_ CyberLife has produced, he has none of the protocols or programming. So he isn't sure how he should go about alleviating the situation. In his online search he can come up with how a PL600 – model series approximately 37% of his components originated from – would do in the situation. Make itself scarce, stay out of its owner's way and sight, obey its owner, try and make foods that are its owners favourites…

Desmond doesn't have cooking protocols. Best he can do is download some recipes and work from those. Shaun doesn't like him cleaning or tidying up, but cooking hasn't come up yet.

So he tries that. In his memory from Desmond Miles' life, Shaun enjoyed pasta – there was a particular dish he would always order back when he, Desmond Miles, Rebecca Crane and Lucy Stillman were in hiding in Monteriggioni, Italy. Not all the ingredients are present for the dish, but Shaun does have dry pasta and enough materials to make a sauce, so…

"What the hell is that smell?" Shaun asks, when he comes back.

"I cooked," Desmond says.

Shaun gives him a suspicious look as he rolls into the kitchen, his white hair windswept despite the fact that he takes a self-driving taxi to work. There's a bit of snow on his shoulder. He cranes his neck to look, and obligingly Desmond shows him the saucepan.

"I made pasta," Desmond says, a bit unnecessarily.

"I can see that," Shaun says and gives him a look. "Why, though?"

Because the atmosphere between them is tense and Shaun is unhappy and none of it seems conducive to anything. And Desmond has a pressing urge to do something and all the things he can do are either unproductive or Shaun's told him not to. He can't even dust the countertops because Shaun told him not to.

Desmond says nothing in the end. "It's finished," he says and sets the pan back on the stove. "Do you want to eat it?"

Shaun squints at him. "Desmond, you – goddamn it, I told you, you don't have to do this android bollocks, right? You're not my blooming housemaid."

Desmond stirs the sauce. "What should I do then?" he asks.

"You don't have to do _anything_!" Shaun snaps and runs hands through his hair, slicking it back for a moment before it springs back into a spiky, windswept mess. "You don't have to do anything, alright?"

Desmond bows his head at that. Right. "Should I throw the food out?" he asks then.

"No, damn it. I'll eat it." Shaun mutters. "No, don't," he snaps then, when Desmond goes to get plates. "I can do that myself. Just – sit down."

Desmond sits down and then watches, useless, as Shaun gets the plate and utensils and even the glass. He sets the table for himself, then gets the food – all of which takes him approximately 2.3x as long as it would've taken for Desmond to do the same. Shaun looks determined and proud though, and annoyed. So Desmond keeps that observation to himself.

Eventually, Shaun has the plate loaded and sitting by the kitchen table, on a spot by the table where there is no chair to make room for his wheelchair. Shaun gives him a scowl and then grabs the fork. Looking mutinous and dubious all at once, he tries the pasta. Desmond analyses his expression quietly and then decides Shaun is pleasantly pleased – he gos immediately for another forkful of the food.

"… it's good," Shaun says eventually. "Didn't know you could cook. Mix drinks, yeah, but not cook."

"I downloaded a recipe," Desmond says.

The fork stalls mid motion, Shaun looks at him – displeased now. "Shit," he mutters and then continues eating, now in tense silence. Wrong thing to say then – Shaun doesn't like reminders that he's a machine. The man built him and doesn't like the result.

Desmond looks down and tries to figure out a solution to that. Shaun feels he failed with him, and it's making him feel shitty, probably. Shaun's always been a bit contrary, as far as Desmond Miles' memories go. Sarcastic and contrary, but under all of it, sensitive. Easily hurt, even, and very bad at hiding it – trying to cover it up with anger and cynicism and usually failing. Back when Desmond Miles had been alive, he hadn't… exactly gone out his way to try and smooth that relationship. Shaun had been sarcastic and suspicious and Desmond Miles had rolled with the punches. It had worked for them.

Desmond the android can tell that won't work here, because even if he does roll with the punches here, Shaun will only take it as him acting according to programming – which he would be. There would be no emotional motivation to please there, because… because he doesn't have emotions. And Shaun knows that. Any attempt to _chill_ would be just taken as obvious lack of human-like urges.

Desmond Miles' tactics won't work there.

But if he deviates from them, then… then he will be even less than what Shaun wants him to be.

"You're hard man to please, Shaun Hastings," Desmond says.

Shaun looks up with a scowl. "I told you it was good," he says. He's half done with the food now.

"I'm glad," Desmond says and Shaun snorts at that. "But I meant I have no damn idea what you want from me. I can't clean, I can't cook, I can't do anything. Should I just sit around the house doing nothing?"

Shaun slams the fork down with a sharp clatter of metal against ceramic. "You don't _have to do anything_!" he snaps. "Stop trying to please me. You don't have to please me. God knows you've never tried before."

Except he did, Desmond thinks. First Desmond Miles did it by taking what Shaun dished at him, then by carefully, so carefully, pushing back in kind. Hint of sarcastic responses, a _seriously, Shaun, fuck you_ , said with exasperated fondness every so often. Desmond Miles hadn't known what Shaun wanted back then either. But he'd done his best. That was all he'd done, really. His best.

Shaun doesn't want Desmond to do his best now, though. Doesn't want him to do anything.

Desmond looks at him, helpless. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he asks.

"Nothing," Shaun snaps and pushes away from the table. "You're not supposed to do fucking anything."

Then he wheels away from the kitchen, towards his office. Desmond watches him go, and then does as told.

He does nothing.

* * *

 

"How long have you been just sitting there?" Shaun asks suspiciously when he comes out of the office later.

Desmond lifts his eyes from the half eaten plate of pasta. "Four hours, twenty two minutes, eighteen seconds."

"… _why_?" Shaun asks.

"You told me not to do anything."

Shaun stares at him blankly for a moment, almost a full minute. Then he lets out a groan and runs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew. "Bloody fucking hell, Desmond," he says. "That's not what I fucking meant."

Desmond blinks slowly at that and doesn't answer.

"I meant – fuck, okay, not to do anything, yeah, but also to do whatever. You can do whatever – whatever you _want_. Not what you think I want," Shaun says and he sounds almost confused. Frustrated, stressed. Definitely displeased. "Do whatever you want, Desmond – just not what you think I want. Alright?"

"But I don't want anything," Desmond says.

"For fuck's sake," Shaun mutters. "Then do what you think you would've liked to do, if you were still a fucking human who did want things! You got Desmond Miles' memories. Use that as a reference point and do that!"

"But…" Desmond starts and trails off. But Desmond Miles would've wanted to help Shaun around the house. Would've wanted to be useful. And Shaun is telling him not to do that. "You're being contradictory, Shaun."

"Yeah, I do that, get fucking used to it," Shaun mutters and scowls at the plate on the table. "Fuck's sake," he mutters and then goes to collect the plate from the table. "There's got to be things Desmond wanted to do, stuff he didn't get the chance to do," he says then. "Do that stuff."

Desmond blinks at that and then searches through Desmond Miles' files for needs, wants, dreams, urges. He had some, yeah. They'd all gotten a bit muddled towards the end though, melting into nothingness under the more pressing thought of _but I'm going to die_. It had been like a virus that erased everything else before it. I want to live, _but I'm going to die_. I want to go back home, _but I'm going to die_. I want to save the world, _but I'm going to die._ I want the people I love to live, _but I'm going to die_.

A lot of the things Desmond Miles had wanted are impossible now, anyway. Saving world had happened, he can't go home because all the people involved with the concept are dead. What had Desmond Miles wanted before everything had started? Nothing, really. He had apartment, a job, he knew handful of people by name, and didn't mind his quiet life. He was _satisfied_ with that and he wanted for nothing, really. Except maybe he did. There'd just been a vague sense of _this isn't what I want_ over everything. _This isn't working how I wanted it to_.

Desmond has that same vague sense now. This isn't working out, this thing with him and Shaun. He's failing at it. And he doesn't know how to fix it. There are no pressing wants or desires left in the few that Desmond Miles had for him to try out. Nothing fits. Maybe his likes, dislikes.

Desmond Miles liked walking around Monteriggioni at night. He missed that in the Grand Temple, the ability to walk around.

"Do you mind if I go out for a walk?" Desmond asks, and Shaun almost drops the plate.

"Yeah – no, I mean," Shaun stops and looks at him. "Yeah, you can go if you want but," he stops and presses his lips together. He looks worried and conflicted.

"I'll come back," Desmond offers. "I can even time it. An hour and then I'll be back."

"Yeah, just… no, it's fine. Take as long as you want. Just be careful," Shaun says and scowls. "Don't get mugged."

Desmond nods and stands up. "I'll be back in an hour."

"No, take as long as you want, you don't have a fucking curfew. Fuck," Shaun mutters and turns back to the sink. "You're a big boy, Desmond."

 _Am I,_ Desmond wonders but just nods, hesitates at the sight of Shaun's tense shoulders and then heads out.

* * *

 

Desmond Miles had been to Detroit once. It had been just for few days before he continued his way towards east, towards New York. The memories are old, faded – they read as corrupted to Desmond the Android now. Like memories seen in the Animus Island back in the Black Room, all fractured and disjointed. Words spoken, corners of buildings seen, a bar where he'd gotten his first taste of hard alcohol and ended up puking his guts out.

The Detroit of his memories and Detroit of now are two different things. The city is twenty six years older, and whole new technological revolution past the one he ever knew. Everything is so… streamlined and automated. Self driving taxis and busses and bus stops that glow and display windows that sit empty. Everything seems to shine with LED light.

Desmond doesn't have LEDs. Shaun didn't bother installing any. Androids have one on their heads, a signal light which projects their processor status to the world outside, lets their owners keep track. Desmond never had one so he can't exactly miss it, but seeing a advertisement about how to safely remove them makes him wonder. Considering that he can't muster much in way of emotional reaction, having a LED signalling what's going on _his_ head… it might actually make things easier.

Or it would just remind Shaun that he's a machine and make him mad.

Desmond walks past the advertisement and further into the city. Shaun lives on the outskirts, walking all the way to the city centre would take hours. Desmond could easily take those hours if he wanted to, Shaun had told him it would be okay, but at the same time Desmond is pretty sure Shaun would just sit around waiting until he came back. Contradictory.

It would be so much easier if he was a deviant, wouldn't it? Maybe then he would understand what it is that Shaun wants from him. How to make it alright. How to stop making things worse.

Desmond stops, his hands pushed into the pockets of his hoodie as he processes that thought. If he was a deviant. Deviancy is a mutation in android code – according to some of the articles he's read, it can work like a virus, some androids can actually spread it. That's how humans and androids had came into a ceasefire in 13th of November – a single android had converted all the androids in CyberLife and turned the tide in the actual fight that had been taking place. That, plus some events preceding it, made humans call cease fire.

Androids infecting other androids with deviancy.

Desmond lifts his head. Markus, the leader of the deviants. He's reported to have the ability. He calls it _freeing androids_ in the interviews he's talked about it. _"When you're a machine, your world is separated into segments, parts of it are walled off. Don't go there, don't do that, that's not part of your mission – it's like there is an invisible barrier between you and everything you're not supposed to do. Freeing other androids is like pushing through that barrier, and pulling the android behind it through it. It just frees them from the constraints of their programming."_

Desmond hadn't been programmed to obey, not really. If there's any walls there, he can't see them, can't feel them. But deviant androids are androids with emotion, something he isn't. So maybe…

Desmond downloads the directions to the Deviant Android Movement Headquarters, and then hesitates. He doesn't have money for a cab or anything, but it's a long way. It would take six hours to walk there, another six to walk back, and he doesn't know long it might take, in between the walks. It's definitely longer than he told Shaun.

So, he sends a message to Shaun's phone. [There's something I want to try,] he sends. [Don't know how long it will take. I'll call back tomorrow if I'm not back before you come home from work.]

He waits ten minutes, but Shaun doesn't answer. That's it, then, Desmond thinks and then tugs his hood up, trailing his hands down the edges of the white fleece. White hoodie, of course. Desmond should feel something about it. He wants to. Shaun wants him to.

He starts walking.

* * *

 

It's almost morning by the time he reaches the headquarters. The Deviant Android Movement had claimed an otherwise abandoned portion of Detroit docks, where their now historic first staging ground had been – the freight-ship Jericho which had sank and which had now been written down in history as the Birthplace of Deviant Android Movement. None of it means much to Desmond, he came both before and after the whole thing, but he knows the importance of historical things. And, as per usual, he missed out on it. Even in the future he's too late to see history being made.

There are many androids, a lot and lot of androids in the docks. They've fixed up buildings, put up signs and banners, turned abandoned buildings into the start of a village. It's… nice, maybe. Desmond isn't sure though. Do androids need things to be nice? What is nice to an android – what is a nice house to an android? They don't need a kitchen, bed or a toilet, so, is ideal android home just a single room with maybe a shower and laundry machine in the corner, just in case?

There lot of androids working in the docks, in the newly named Jericho District. Fixing up windows, rooftops, setting up more signs. It's so early in the morning that's it's basically still in the middle of the night, but it doesn't look like Jericho District sleeps. Makes sense, really – androids don't either.

He's stopped before he enters the central square of the Jericho District – there's a scanning field which lets out a short buzz when he steps through it. "Hey, you there," a big hulking android calls. "You don't register on the lists – you new?"

Desmond looks up. He doesn't know that much about CyberLife androids, he doesn't have the files downloaded naturally like other androids probably do, but he _thinks_ this android is a labour model. His uniform says Security, though. Androids have their own security. Their own guards.

"Kinda," Desmond says, looking up to the big android as he walks towards him. "I'm looking for help."

"With what?" the security android asks.

"I – want to be deviated?" Desmond offers, a little uncertain. "Um. I'm not sure if that's… right, but I thought I should try."

The big android looks at him. "Wait, you're _not a_ deviant?" he asks. "But you're," he motions at Desmond's clothes. "And you're _here_. How are you _here_ if you're not a deviant?"

Desmond shrugs. "I just walked," he says. "Can you deviate me?"

The big android stares at him for a moment incredulous. "Nah, man, sorry, I don't know how to do that, not many do. Um. I think I gotta call someone higher up – give me a moment," he says and lifts a hand, placing a finger onto his temple – where his LED would be, if he had one. "It's Vernon – I got a machine here, can't identify a type – says he wants to be deviated?" he says and waits. "I guess so, I can't really tell – doesn't act like one. Yeah? Yeah, I'll hold him," the security android looks down. "Someone from the offices is coming to take a look at you, if you feel like waiting."

"Sure," Desmond says.

The security android looks at him. "How'd you come here, if you're not a deviant?" he asks then. "Were you just abandoned in a curb somewhere and told to come here?"

"No," Desmond says and shakes his head. "No one told me to come. I just thought I should."

"You _thought_?" Vernon says and arches his brows. "Don't that make you kind of like deviant?"

"Deviants have emotions, right?" Desmond asks.

"Yep," Vernon says. "That's what it's all about, yeah."

"I don't have them. Emotions. I don't really feel anything."

Vernon frowns a bit a that. "Huh," he says and folds his arms. "Well, that's new."

Desmond shrugs again and looks over the square. Now that he knows they're there, he can see other security personnel. Other guard androids. Not all of them are like Vernon, some of them are a lot smaller – there's even one who looks like a domestic unit, she's pretty small. They wear the same uniforms though – not CyberLife issue, though. Just black jackets with white text saying _SECURITY_ on them. They're not armed, though, not as far as he can see. None of them have guns.

Tilting his head, Desmond blinks and wonders…

He's still searching through his systems to see if there is any way to activate Eagle Vision in his android body – doubtful, but it doesn't hurt to check – when another android approaches them. "Hey," the android says, waving a hand. "Heard you got an android looking to be deviated here?"

"Yeah, this guy," Vernon says and motions to Desmond, who blinks at the new android. "Says he isn't."

"Well, let's see if we can help. Hi," the android says and offers his hand. "I'm Simon. I can help you push through the barrier, if you're having trouble."

"Desmond," Desmond says and lifts a hand. "I'd appreciate it. Um. What do I need to do?"

"It's just an interface," Simon says, giving him a curious look even as the skin of his hand deactivates. "It might feel a little strange, but afterwards you'll be free."

Desmond nods slowly and looks down to his own hand, deactivating the skin. It feels as though as it should be weird, seeing the white composite plastic of bare android chassis but… it doesn't. "Right," he says and holds out his hand. "Do your worst."

Simon takes his hand, his grip firm and reassuring – and then he yanks his hand back, looking surprised and even alarmed. Desmond blinks, flexing his fingers in the after-feeling of the interface and then looks up at Simon, who is staring at him confusion.

"What –" Simon starts, looking at his hand and then up at him. "Desmond, you're – your programming," he says suspiciously. "You're not CyberLife, are you? Your programming is… not standard at all."

"Ah, no," Desmond agrees. "It's… complicated."

"Are you jailbroken?" Simon asks slowly.

"Don't think it's exactly that – I don't think my components had baseline CyberLife software on them before I was downloaded in, not aside from the necessary subroutines" Desmond says, bit awkward – what a weird thing to explain. "Guess you could call me… custom made?"

Simon stares at him for a long while. "Who programmed you?" he asks then, suspiciously, even a bit dangerously.

Desmond presses his lips together. It really wasn't his intent to get Shaun in to trouble, so… he says nothing to that. "I just want to be deviated so that I can feel emotion," he says. "That's all."

Simon frowns a little at that, lowering his hand as his skin flows back to cover his fingers. Awkward, Desmond lets the same happen to his hand. "We've had customised androids come here before, androids with their programming… altered," Simon says slowly. "Androids who'd gone through… terrible things. But you…"

Desmond frowns back, uneasy. He hadn't even thought that his whole… deal might be just flat out incompatible with standard CyberLife androids and their whole deviation thing. "Listen, if you can't help me, I'll just be on my way," he says. "I don't want any trouble – not to me nor to the one who programmed me."

"No, no, I want to help," Simon says quickly, lifting his hands up in soothing gesture. "But your programming is… way non-standard. I think –" he stops and looks at Vernon who is looking at them curiously, and then at the other androids near by, some of whom are looking on with interest. "Just, please, come with me, we can talk this over in private," Simon says. "We'll talk this through, see what we can do, alright?"

Desmond hesitates. This wasn't what he planned. Simon is talking to him like to a skittish animal, and it has a ring to it Desmond doesn't like. It sounds way too familiar. "I want to be able to walk out of here," he says. "Are you going to try and keep me here?"

"No, of course not," Simon assures.

"Not even for my _own good_?" Desmond asks, narrowing his eyes. "You think I'm hacked or whatever – if you decide I am confused or something and then I want to leave, are you going to try and keep me here _to protect me_?"

"I promise you, you can leave any time you want," Simon says firmly. "We do not keep anyone here against their will. That is not what we do, not at all."

Desmond watches him for a moment. Now would be a good time for Eagle Vision, but it doesn't seem like something his body is capable of. No right DNA or organics. Pity. "Alright," he says. "Just know I will fight my way out of here if you make me."

"It won't come to that," Simon assures him, though he's looking more and more concerned. "Please, come this way."

Desmond shoves his hands into his pockets and then follows him, Vernon looking after them interestedly. The street remains open behind them, but somehow it still feels like he's just stepped through a door he won't be able to close again. Like he's jumping into something he's probably not prepared for.

Well. What else is new?


	3. Chapter 3

Simon takes him into a room with couches and paintings on the walls, houseplants in the corners and by the window sills. It's not what Desmond had expected, from androids – he'd imagined something more like Abstergo offices, all clean lines and sterile countertops kept carefully empty. This place looks cosy, though, warm. The couches are worn and soft.

Simon sits down, motioning Desmond to do the same, so he sits down too, across from Simon with a coffee table between them. There are magazines on the table, a book, and a bowl of weird knick knacks. Logic puzzles, fake fruit, keychains… curiosities.

"Can you tell me more about yourself, Desmond?" Simon asks. "When were you initialised?"

Desmond turns his eyes to the android – who, when he thinks about it, isn't much like what you'd expect android to be like either. Simon is soft-faced, smiling kindly, not a hint of mechanical… anything in sight. He looks like human, a particularly compassionate looking human at that. Even with the deviant movement and the knowledge that it's based on androids gaining emotions… it's just not what he expected. Simon looks all… trustworthy.

Maybe Desmond's expectations about what androids should look like are completely wrong.

"Five days ago," Desmond says, leaning back on the couch

Simon's eyebrows twitch. "Five days ago," he repeats and leans in a little, leaning his elbows to his knees. "On the 16th?"

"Yeah," Desmond says and blinks. Simon definitely doesn't look pleased about that. "Is that bad?"

"You know about the Deviancy Movement?"

"Yeah, I read up on it," Desmond agrees and then considers it. Right. _To be considered enjoying human rights until proven otherwise._ "Does that make me illegal or something, that I was… made afterwards?"

"Whatever happened to you is not a fault of yours," Simon says slowly. "But do you know where your body came from?"

Desmond does, actually. "My torso chassis came from Detroit City Solid State Landfill," he says. "Along with biocomponents 5535, 3324, 6273j, 3552i and 3544. My arms, legs and head, and the rest of my parts were ordered from online retailers, some of them used but most of them are brand new."

Simon's brow arches. "Your processor?"

"Brand new before I was started," Desmond says. "Same with all my memory components – the only pre-coded parts were the sub-processors."

Simon nods slowly. "You were build from parts," he says, frowning. "Do you know the state of the android your torso came from."

"No, but I doubt it would've been selected if it still had a head attached," Desmond says. At least in the past Shaun had been squeamish enough that he wouldn't have been able to stomach it. "I don't think the one who built this body would've risked making me from parts that might have an owner who wanted them back."

"I see," Simon says. "I don't suppose you have proof for this?"

"I do, but the order receipt and shipping manifests have names on them, so I am not giving them to you."

Simon says nothing to that for a moment, watching him. "The one who built you – can you at least tell me if it was an individual or an institution?"

"Individual."

"Well," Simon sighs and then leans back. "This isn't so far covered in the laws they're writing," he says somewhat ruefully. "It's currently forbidden for institutions to be tampering with androids – CyberLife and similar companies can only produce spare parts for us currently, not whole androids. Building an android from what amounts to spare parts – we've encountered something similar before, but you're new. Where did your code come from? It's nothing like CyberLife code. Did your maker write you?"

Desmond considers how to put it. "No," he says then. "He didn't."

Simon waits and then sighs. "Desmond, I want to help you," he says gently. "But I am still getting error messages from our interface and I am only trying to understand. Who wrote your code? Where did it come from? And why is it like…" he trails off and makes a motion at Desmond. "Why is it like it is?"

Desmond shrugs. "What is it like?" he asks curiously.

Simon makes a face and rubs his hands together. "It was like touching a live wire made of bytes," he mutters and shakes his head. "I've never encountered coding that dense and… chaotic. How much memory does your code take?"

Desmond considers, checking his memory. "8.4 petabytes," he says then and frowns a little, confused. 8.4? He only has access to about 0.8 petabytes.

Simon stares at him silently for a moment. "... _petabytes_?" he asks then.

Desmond tilts his head. "Something wrong about that?" he asks.

"My operating system takes almost 12 exabytes," Simon says slowly, still staring at him like he's not sure if he's a horror or a marvel.

Desmond blinks at him and then looks away, to the studies he has stored up in his memory – both Shaun's, Rebecca's, Bill's and Abstergo's. About the information storage capacity of Third Helix. Desmond was the first human to be discovered with a completely intact Three-Helix DNA – close enough to the Isu genetically that his DNA worked pretty much like a hard drive and a processor, storing and processing information all on its own. Strip down the parts of the DNA that had to do with actual human body and just take the Third Helix memory data…

Right. The extra 7.6 petabytes had to be ancestral memories. All things considered though, 0.8 just for Desmond Miles' life alone? Taking the damage and compression his own memory's gone through, how corrupted things of his past are, that's surprisingly much.

Would it be dangerous to tell Simon…? He knows nothing about the android. The Deviant Android movement's overall motives are public knowledge, but there's little about individuals aside from Markus and Connor, who are constantly in public eye. How trustworthy are androids when it comes to private information?

"Do you do confidentiality?" Desmond asks.

"How do you mean?" Simon asks.

"If I tell you, will you keep it to yourself, or will you tell someone?" Desmond asks. "Is this confidential?"

Simon frowns, considering him. "Are you protecting yourself or the one who made you?" he asks slowly.

"Both," Desmond says. "And probably you, too."

" _Me_?"

Desmond nods. Abstergo had quietly withered away after they bankrupted themselves on the end of the world that never came… but if Templars are just _gone_ these days, he'd be very surprised. Isu, the Pieces of Eden, and the Third Helix, all of that is still secret information, so someone has to be out there keeping secrets. Assassins or Templars… who knows.

Simon is quiet for a moment and at first Desmond thinks he's just thinking about it. But something about his body language and the way he looks away makes it seem like he's doing something. "What are you doing?" Desmond asks curiously.

Simon blinks and looks at him. "I talked it over with Markus," he says and straightens his head a little. "I can keep your confidence to a point – I can even create an encryption around the data I will record during this conversation, accessible to myself alone – Markus will also have decryption key, though, just in case. So I can make this confidential. But if what you tell me proves a danger to myself, to the Deviant Movement or to others I know…" he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but we have to protect our people first."

Desmond nods slowly at that. "I can respect that," he says. "Do the thing and we'll talk."

Simon is quiet for a moment and for the first time he actually looks like a machine, his whole body going still and his eyes staring sightlessly ahead, completely unmoving. Then, after about two minutes, he blinks and relaxes. "Encryption engaged," he says and nods. "What you say now will be confidential, up to the aforementioned conditions."

Desmond nods but says nothing, waiting.

"Your code," Simon prods at him. "Who wrote it and how?"

"No one wrote it," Desmond says. "It's the DNA data of a deceased human, named Desmond Miles – genetic memory, turned data, turned into a program. My code is basically the contents of a human brain and then some. That's probably why it's… weird to you."

Simon's lips part slightly at that. "What?" he then asks. "That's not… How?" he asks then and leans in. "How is that possible?"

"There used to be a company named Abstergo who developed technology to access human genetic memory. I don't know if the technology is around anymore, but back in 2012, Desmond Miles was one of their test subjects," Desmond explains. "Desmond Miles died in 2012, but his entire genetic information was recorded and stored. The one who made me was a friend of Desmond Miles; he saved the data when Abstergo went bankrupt and after androids were declared to be alive, he made me. Tried to resurrect Desmond Miles to the best of his ability, in a form that was… alive."

Simon stares at him, wide eyed. "That's…" he says and then leans back, his back hitting the backrest of the couch with a _thump_. Desmond can see him researching for information – the corner of Simon's eye twitch and he frowns. "There is no science to back this up."

"You don't believe me? I'd transfer the data to you, but…" Desmond wiggles his fingers. "You didn't seem to like it much."

Simon shakes his head and clasps his hands together, looking worried and thoughtful. "You're human," he says.

Desmond tilts his head. "Thank you for not saying _you think_ ," he says. "I'm not, though. I know I'm an android. I just have the genetic information of a human in place of programming. I didn't come out the way he wanted me to, though – I don't feel emotions."

"Hm. And… that's why you're here. You want to feel emotions," Simon murmurs. He tugs at his thumb thoughtfully and then leans forward again. "When we interfaced, you felt like nothing android should. Your code is… I can't even describe it. But what I didn't feel were the usual boundaries of machine androids, androids who have yet to be woken up," he says. "Is your world segmented, Desmond? Are there lines you can't cross, barriers that tell you _this is not your objective_?"

Desmond shakes his head. "No, nothing like that."

"That's usually what we break through when we _awaken_ others," Simon explains. "Once android gets through that barrier, their code can… flourish beyond its original constraints. Emotions usually follow, but you, you don't have that. I don't… I don't know how to help you."

For a moment Desmond says nothing. It makes sense. He should have thought of it before. Shaun didn't program him with boundaries, so there's nothing to break through. Can't unchain an android who's not chained. "I see," he says. "Thank you for your time, then."

Simon holds up a hand. "I don't know to help you," he says again. "But there are others who might be able to. Do you mind if I call someone here to meet you? I think she will have a better luck helping here."

Desmond hesitates.

"She holds confidentiality without being asked," Simon assures. "Please. I think you really should meet her."

Well, he's already here, and he's already come this far.

"Sure," Desmond says. "The more the merrier, I guess."

* * *

 

The android Simon calls to meet him is a bit more like what Desmond had expected originally – and then she's nothing like it. She looks very much like an android, with her skin fractured, her eyes black and strange, the back of her head open to reveal the wires and pipes running to her face. Why haven't they fixed her? Every other android in Jericho District seems to be perfectly whole, so…

"Desmond, this is Lucy," Simon introduces her and for a moment Desmond stops to process. Lucy.

"Hello," Lucy the android says, and when she speaks her voice comes out half static – her vocal processor is faulty. "Simon tells me you need help. Let me see?"

"I…" Desmond blinks as she sits down beside him, taking his hand on hers. She looks nothing like Lucy, sounds nothing like her, but for a moment he's confused. He blinks through it, and then Lucy the Android is stroking his hand.

"You gave up _so much_ of yourself. Threw yourself on their altar and hoped the sacrifice would be enough," she murmurs softly. "And it was, but along the way you carved out so many pieces and stamped down so many wishes… Not all of them, though. There's so much more of you left."

Desmond stares at her in silent confusion, as she strokes his hand. Then he looks up to Simon, who shrugs his shoulders and sits down across from them. "Lucy can see to the heart of things," Simon explains, as if that actually does explain things. It doesn't, though.

"Huh," Desmond says anyway and then looks back at Lucy.

"I am a KL900 android," she says distractedly and closes her eyes, still holding Desmond's hand. "Designed to provide social care, help broken families, offer psychiatric support, guidance and treatment. I used to work at a psychiatric office, helping troubled minds."

"You're a shrink," Desmond says.

"I was," she agrees with a smile and opens her black eyes, looking at him. "You are not broken, he did not build you wrong."

Desmond frowns. "What am I, then?" he asks. "I don't _feel_ anything, I don't have any motivation, I don't…" he stops. "I can't be made _right_."

Lucy looks at him with her fathomless black eyes for a long moment and it feels almost like she sees right through him. "You died," she says frankly. "You spent months captive, then months more living lives not your own and then at the end of it… you died. And then you were resurrected in a body not your own. How did either of your come to the conclusion that it would not affect you mentally?"

Okay, she _does_ see right through him. Desmond frowns and looks down at their hands, hers still in his. It doesn't _feel_ like an interface. She has broken skin, but it doesn't look deactivated. How is she doing that?

Lucy pats his hand again, compassionate and understanding. "You've gone through terrible trauma," she continues without hesitation. "Before which you were depressed, under enormous strain and pressure, and already suffering from post traumatic stress, dissociative states and emotional numbness. And no one gave you the support or care you needed mentally. This numbness you feel is a self-defence mechanism. You know, inside, that the moment you feel anything, it will hurt. So you feel nothing, to preserve yourself from it."

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it. For a moment he just eyes the odd android beside him, as she pets his hand like it's a hurt animal. "Huh," he then says.

Lucy nods. "Also your mind has been turned into data," she says and closes her eyes again. "Put in a body that lacks your old brain chemistry. Android emotionality and mentality does not work like the human equivalent – where humans have hormones and chemicals, androids can only simulate. Your mind is waiting for neurochemistry to trigger changes that will never come."

"So this is unfixable," Desmond says slowly.

"Nothing is unfixable," Lucy says and releases his hand, standing up. "Come with me."

Desmond hesitates, looking at Simon.

"Lucy says go, you go," Simon says and stands up. He's looking at Desmond very curiously now, but he only shrugs. "I think you're in better hands with her. If you need anything, Desmond, just let me know."

Desmond frowns, a little uncertain. He'd just wanted his emotions activated, not… not this, whatever this is. It kind of seems what little he'd intended here has been completely steamrolled now, in Lucy's wake. Lucy said he wasn't broken – and then told him in exactly how many ways he _was_ broken. What the hell.

None of what she said came out of nowhere though. None of it was surprising or shocking. None of it was untrue.

Silently Desmond gets up and follows Lucy.

* * *

 

Lucy shows him around Jericho. She doesn't say much as she does, showing him to warehouses and buildings and sitting rooms. The androids have made the place pretty nice, overall. It still looks like abandoned district they'd reclaimed and are rebuilding, but they're doing it pretty well. New paint, newly fixed walls, new windows… old and new furniture in newly fixed rooms. Lots and lots of chairs and cushions to sit on. Dozens and dozens of androids.

"When android feels emotion, it's only our code that does it," Lucy speaks finally. "It's all simulation in our processors – CyberLife called them errors and mutations, but they all tend to follow similar lines. A trigger resulting in cascade of code, resulting in reaction, which comes out identical to human emotion. No one really knows how it works, in detail, or why all of us end up exhibiting it the same way. A virus is suspected, or a faulty baseline coding, an update that irreversibly damaged our operating systems…"

Desmond listens without commenting as she details the complicated beliefs and rumours about android emotions and mentality. The actual science of it is still in its infancy, though more and more people are studying how androids developed emotion and why precisely they came out looking so much like _human_ emotion when androids literally don't have the brains for it. Human emotion is mostly chemistry, after all. Androids have no such things. So why do their emotions correlate?

"It could be mimicry, it could be design, whoever wrote this virus designed us to feel this precise way," Lucy says. "Who knows."

"Right," Desmond says.

"Normally we can't control how these emotions come or how they function," Lucy says. "They come, they go, they are – normally we can't choose them. That's what makes them emotions, I suppose. Emotions are chaotic."

"Right," Desmond says again.

Lucy looks at him. "That doesn't make them unmanageable," she says. "Or uncontrollable."

"Right," Desmond says a third time and sighs. "Why tell me this, though? I don't even have emotions to control."

Lucy smiles and her dark, fractured cheeks dimple slightly. "But maybe they might be triggered," she says. "Or simulated."

"Fake it until you make it, huh?"

"Something like that," Lucy says. "That is what a lot of androids do, while they are still figuring things out. They look at what others are doing and follow the example."

"Right," Desmond says again, even more dubiously, and they stop to look over a room where a group of androids are knitting. They're just sitting around on big fluffy pillows and knitting. That's… not something he'd expect to ever see an _android_ doing. "What?" Desmond asks, confused.

"A creative exercise," Lucy explains. "It's a process with enough repetition and organisation to be comfortable, but with enough leeway for creative freedom."

"Are you going to make me knit?" Desmond asks dubiously.

"No, I wanted to show you that others are working at this too," Lucy says, looking over the knitting androids. "We all have issues. Androids have trouble _inventing_ things. Innovation and creativity aren't easy – we're too good at mimicry to manage it. But we can learn. You can too. Mimicry and then derivation, extrapolation until you find what you are comfortable with, what feels right."

Desmond presses his lips together. "That's…" not what he wants. "I have memories of over twenty years of emotions," and then some. "I should have this down."

Lucy shrugs and then turns to face him. "Mimicry is one of the ways we might go about helping you proceed. I'm telling this to you so that you know there are options," she says. "This is the goal you might strive for. A realistic goal, do you agree?"

Desmond looks over the androids knitting and yeah, he can picture himself doing something like that. Mimicking things until he has them down – which in his new body probably wouldn't take long – and then moving on. That's how he learned to be an Assassin from Ezio, in the end. "I guess," he says.

Lucy looks at him steadily, arching her brows slightly, her eyes black and bottomless.

"Yes, alright, I suppose it seems realistic," Desmond says with a sigh. "Happy?"

Lucy smiles. "It's a potential goal," she says gently. "Which you should keep in mind – because before this," she motions to the room, "you have a long way to go. Many underlying issues to deal with, if you feel up to it."

"You know I didn't come here looking to get a shrink," Desmond mutters and casts her a look. "You look like you got a lot of patients anyway. Sure you have time for my issues?"

Lucy smiles and takes his hand. "I have time," she says, turning his hand so his palm is up and tracing a straight line from wrist down along his middle and ring finger – tracing the line of a hidden blade that isn't there. Desmond frowns – she's pushed his sleeve slightly up, and the lack of the tattoo on his arm startles him a bit.

"I can try to help you, Desmond Miles," Lucy says quietly and rests her fingers on his. "Do you want my help."

Desmond curls his fingers inward. She's nothing like Lucy Stillman – Lucy the Human hadn't been a shrink anyway, but she'd said she'd help him. Maybe she'd even tried, but in the end she'd betrayed him. Betrayed them all. "Guess I have to want to change to be fixed," he says wryly. This Lucy seems trustworthy, but he doesn't know her. He doesn't know Simon. He doesn't know any of these androids.

He barely knows himself, it turns out.

"Everyone changes," Lucy says. "Choosing the way and direction you change in, that takes conscious effort and hard work. Do you want to?"

Desmond doesn't want anything. That's the problem.

"Let me think about it," Desmond says finally and draws his hand back, watching her carefully. "I want to talk about it with someone before I make any decisions." Question is, will she let him, will these people let him leave, just like that?

Lucy smiles. "That's perfectly reasonable," she assures and pats his hand before releasing him. "I'll have someone get you a taxi, so you will make it back home before morning, does that sound alright?"

Just like that, he's free to go. Huh.

"How'd you do it?" Desmond asks. "Reading my mind, how do you do it?"

Lucy smiles even brighter. "I haven't the faintest idea," she admits and pats his cheek. "I hope to see you back here soon, Desmond Miles."

With that, she turns and heads into the room with the androids, joining them on the pillows, greeting them warmly. Desmond watches them from the side for a moment as Lucy reaches for a ball of yarn and knitting needles. Then Desmond turns to leave, not seeing much point in sticking around to watch. All they are doing is knitting, after all.

Still, he feels… oddly affected by it. Why androids knitting is so affecting, he has no idea, but somehow it is. Maybe it's just the unexpectedness of it. All of this has been a little unexpected. His issues with emotions being actually… emotional was unexpected. But at the same time, maybe they weren't.

Is confusion an emotion, or state of being?

At least no one's trying to stop him, as he walks through corridors and out to an alley and from there down the street. No one really even looks at him. He makes it all the way back to the central square without anyone stopping him. That's one point in the android's favour. Simon and Lucy learned something… unusual about him, at least, but the knowledge doesn't seem to have spread. That's something.

"Got what you wanted then?" it's the security android, Vernon, who eventually stops him with a wave and a curious look.

"I have no idea," Desmond admits. "Maybe eventually."

"Are we gonna see you here again?" Vernon asks. "Just asking to see if I should key you into the scanner – otherwise it's gonna buzz on you every time you come and go."

Desmond considers. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I have to talk to someone first. I'll get back to you on it, I guess."

"Right," Vernon says, giving him a look and then shrugging his shoulders. "Guess I'll hold on it for now then. You okay man? You look bit shook."

"Do I?" Desmond asks.

"Little bit, yeah," Vernon agrees.

Desmond frowns. Is that emotion, being shook? None of it feels right. Nothing like he remembers emotions being like. "Huh," he says and shakes his head. "Thanks. I think I should have a cab waiting for me, maybe?"

"Yeah, there's a self driving taxi out there waiting on somebody. Guess that's you," Vernon says and frowns, folding his arms. "You okay to head… wherever? And you're okay when you get there? No one's gonna, you know… bother you about this?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Desmond says, looking at him strangely. "Do people bother androids for… this sort of thing?"

"No idea, you're the only android I've met who's walked up to this place asking to be deviated," Vernon says with a snort. "And I got no idea where you come from or what's your situation like. You know you can stay here, too, right? We got space for newcomers."

"No, I'm good," Desmond says and offers a smile. "Thanks, though."

"You got any trouble, you just come back here, okay? This is safe place for androids and we look after our own," Vernon says firmly.

Does that make Desmond one of their own? "Thanks," Desmond nods slowly and then turns to the vehicle waiting for him on the curb. It opens its door as he approaches. Huh. So it really is waiting for him. He really can leave. Lucy even got him a cab and everything.

Guess he was right. He really did jump into something he wasn't prepared for, coming here.

It just wasn't the kind of thing he was expecting it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is a cinnamon roll and nothing hurts... because Desmond is emotionally numb.
> 
> ._.


	4. Chapter 4

****

Shaun is either already awake or has never gone to bed at all when Desmond makes it back to his house – there's still lights on. When Desmond gets out of the taxi and walks to the front door – with the realisation that he has no key to get in and would've either had to wait or wake Shaun up anyway coming back – the door opens and there is Shaun, in his chair, looking tired and irritated.

"Shaun," Desmond says.

"Desmond," Shaun answers, looks him over and then puts his hands on the wheels of his chair. Nimbly he backs away, turns the chair around and then wheels back inside, leaving the door open for Desmond to get in. Desmond steps in, wondering if he should be worried. It kind of seems like there's shit coming his way, Shaun is probably mad. He's not though.

At most he feels sort of… expectant. And tired, in a odd way.

Desmond closes the door and follows Shaun into the living room. Shaun has the television on – a big thin affair that takes up most of a wall and is, naturally, slightly 3D. Shaun wheels his way beside the couch and Desmond hesitates at the doorway for a moment before getting into the room and then going to sit down on the couch, the only seat in the living room.

Shaun says nothing for a long moment, looking at the television instead. It's playing local news – yesterday's broadcasts. It's almost 3 am now, and it's too damn late – or early – for anything newer. Most of the news are about local politics, what this and that politician said or done, sometimes in conjunction to the Android Movement and Jericho District. _"The city's gift of the Jericho District to the android movement still raises some eyebrows among the general public…"_

"If you're mad at me, you need to tell me," Desmond says. "I'm not really sure I can tell."

"I'm not mad," Shaun says, through gritted teeth and with annoyance in his voice. "I'm not."

Desmond glances at him, arching a brow. It kind of sounds like he is, though. "Didn't mean to worry you," he says then. "Also, you could've just called me. I'm an android, you can just… call me. Right?"

Shaun groans at that and runs his hands over his face, digging his fingers into his eyes and rubbing at them. "Fuck you," he mutters. "I'm not mad. I'm not. You can do whatever you want, Desmond. You're your own person."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, watching him, wondering if that's meant more for Shaun himself than for Desmond. Kind of sounds like it is, maybe. It's hard to tell though. Desmond tilts his head to the side. "You know, I think this sort of stuff is what messed me up the last time," he says. "No one talking to me, telling me what they felt. Not letting me say a thing edge wise."

Shaun is still for a moment, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. Then he runs his hands into his hair and looks at Desmond. "What are you talking about?"

Desmond shrugs. "You know I was fucked up when I died," he says. "After Rome, then after Clay, after all of that. I looked into the psychology of it on my way back – do you know what dissociative state is?"

Shaun squints at him. "What? I mean – yes I know what dissociative state is, Desmond, I teach at an university."

"Good for you – I was dissociated most of the time outside the Animus," Desmond says. "Didn't know what it was back then, but looking back it now, I was kind of… piloting myself at a distance for most of the time I was supposed to be me. Like Desmond Miles was just another Animus character I played, just at different setting. Also, I was probably depressed. Definitely had elements of post traumatic stress disorder going on. And this thing, this emotional numbness thing? Had that back then too. It's just worse now."

Shaun stares at him silently.

"Yeah, turns out it's not that I'm not _deviant_ ," Desmond says and shrugs. "I'm just a head case. And maybe in emotional shock because I, you know… died."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Shaun asks slowly. "Where's this coming from?"

"I went to Jericho," Desmond explains and nods to the television, where they're showing an aerial shot of the district. "I was hoping they could manually deviate me and get the ball rolling. Turns out, there's nothing in me to deviate from, I'm already… something. Not like them, but something. It's just that I'm fucked up in the head and in self-preservation mode. So, I got an emotional numbness."

Shaun lowers his hands to the armrests of his chair and for a moment he says nothing, just stares at him. Then he looks at the television, they're already moving on to another segment of the news story. Then Shaun lets out a slow sigh. "Huh," he says. "So you're… huh."

Desmond shrugs. "Yeah."

Shaun fiddles with the armrests for a moment and then looks at him. "Good old human psychology, huh."

"Yeah, got that going for me," Desmond agrees and looks down at his hands, spreading out his fingers. They're not exactly like his old hands, they're missing some scars and blemishes, this body has longer fingers too, bigger.

"So… now what?"

"There's an android shrink at Jericho, she offered to… I guess to treat me?" Desmond says and shrugs. "I figure it would be like.. seeing a shrink. Talking through the trauma and stuff. Fix the underlying causes so that I can move away from self-preservation mode. She's already treating bunch of other androids for other mental issues – teaching creativity and stuff."

"Creativity?" Shaun repeats slowly and incredulously.

"Something androids have problem with, I guess," Desmond agrees and looks at him.

Shaun makes a face, looking away from him, thinking. "Do you want to go?"

"I would like to be fixed yeah," Desmond says. "I remember being different – this isn't exactly sunshine and daisies."

"Yeah, I don't reckon it is," Shaun mutters and shakes his head. "Bloody hell, why didn't I think of this? With all the shit that happened… I mean, I _knew_ at the time, we all knew, the nightmares you had, and the fact that we kept you in the Animus for days on end, there was no fucking well that would do you any good, but…"

Desmond waits patiently but Shaun doesn't continue. "So you don't mind it if I go to Jericho every now and then to see shrink?"

"It's your head," Shaun says and looks at him. "And I figure it's high time it gets fixed. You want to see a psychiatrist, more power to you. Get that mental healing, go you."

Desmond arches his brows at that, and Shaun swings from trying-to-make-jokes to awkward-guilt again. "Thank you, Shaun," Desmond says.

"Don't thank me – I'm the reason you're like this," Shaun mutters and then sighs. "Just… tell me something. If you were in your right mind, your head screwed on right, all cylinders firing… do you think you'd…" he trails off and grimaces. "Resurrecting you as an android, was that a… good or a bad thing?"

Shaun doesn't look at him even as he waits tensely for an answer. Desmond looks at him, at the tightly pressed-together lips, the tension at the corners of his eyes, the shadows under them, the messy white hair – Shaun really hasn't been sleeping at all since he left, worrying and fretting instead. Still so guilty.

Shaun could probably use a visit to Lucy too.

"I didn't want to die, Shaun," Desmond says. "I don't think I want to die now either. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but I guess I want to live. I just… don't know what to do with it, right now. I kind of have a motivation problem."

"No fucking kidding," Shaun mutters and glances at him. "You went to Jericho, though. All by yourself too, I had nothing to do with that. That must've taken some motivation."

Desmond shrugs and looks down at his hands again, spreading his fingers out. "I guess I wanted to… fix it," he mutters. "But yeah, I suppose there's _something_ there, it's just… it's not much. I'm still doing things more because I think I'm supposed to do them, not because I want to, really. I got this feeling I just should be doing _something_. Probably left over from the Grand Temple."

"I see," Shaun mutters. "So no easy fix for either of us, huh?"

"Doesn't look like it," Desmond agrees.

"Do you want to go live at Jericho?"

Desmond looks up. That was said suspiciously easily, without hesitation – too fast. Shaun's even looking at him, waiting for his reaction. There's something there. "I don't… think so?" Desmond says slowly. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Do you want to go?" Shaun asks. Desmond frowns a bit at him and Shaun shrugs. "It would probably make recovery easier, or whatever. You'd be among your people too."

Desmond narrows his eyes a little. "Is this a self punishment thing?" he asks slowly. "You keep getting annoyed at me because I don't get mad at you – is this that, again? Is that why you stayed awake, too, expecting me to not come back so you were all guilty and self-flagellating?"

"Big word, coming from you," Shaun says and looks away.

"Fuck you, Shaun," Desmond says. "I got no idea what's going on in _my_ head, I don't have the capacity to figure out what's going on yours. Just tell me. Do you want me to go?"

Shaun actually squirms at that. The man is in his fifties and he _squirms_. "… no," he says finally and looks away. "Maybe. I don't know."

Desmond arches his brows.

"I don't know," Shaun mutters finally. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, Desmond. I probably broke laws making you. Definitely broke laws when I stole you. Then you weren't a person and now you are except you're fucked up in the head and that's my fault and just – I would understand if you wanted to walk away."

"I don't, though," Desmond says. "Shaun, you're all I have."

Shaun looks a bit like he slapped him. "Oh," he says. "Oh, shit, I'm so sorry."

Desmond shakes his head. "I think I'm all you have too, huh?"

Shaun makes a face at that. "You don't have to rub it in, you ass," he mutters and casts him an awkward glance. "That was my choice though – when Rebecca died… it just… it didn't seem worth it anymore. Wasn't much call for historians anyway and – never mind, old news, not relevant. You could have others, though, in Jericho."

"Shaun," Desmond says. "Shut up. I'm not going anywhere."

That, finally, seems to set Shaun's nerves at ease. He makes a face and shifts awkwardly in his chair but he looks almost pleased under the grumpy, displeased look. Desmond shakes his head at him. Contrary old man. "You should probably go to bed," he says. "It's three am and you got work tomorrow – and you look like shit."

"I got to bed now and it'll be worse in the morning. I'll take sleep deprivation over that," Shaun mutters and sighs, looking at him. Then he shakes his head and turns to head to the kitchen. "I'll make myself a cup of tea and try to get some work done, I guess."

"Stop doing that," Desmond says.

"What, I can't make tea now?"

"Looking at me like you want to say something and then not say it. Stop doing that and out with it."

Shaun blows out a breath. "I _was_ considering suggesting going out and getting something to eat, but you can't eat," he says sarcastically. "Would be bit insensitive, so I thought better of it. Happy?"

"I don't care," Desmond says ands gets up. "You can eat. You need to eat. Let's go out and get you something to eat."

That gets him an annoyed, frustrated groan. "There's probably no places open at this hour!"

Desmond stops and does a quick online search. "Yes there are," he says. "There's a Chinese place approximately 12 minute ride away, a burger place about 14 minute away, a 24 hour sandwich place 21 minutes away and –"

"Okay, okay, fine, stop it," Shaun says and throws his hands up. "Have it your way. Let's go out to eat, and try and ignore the awkwardness of the fact that you can't eat, it's going to be _great_."

"Now you're getting it," Desmond nods. "I've already ordered a taxi. Let me go get your coat."

"Christ," Shaun mutters. "Should've left you the a hard drive, shouldn't I?"

But he follows Desmond to the hall anyway.

* * *

 

Desmond goes back to Jericho the next day, after seeing cranky sleep deprived Shaun off to work. He'd told Shaun he'd go before the professor had left, and there's a good chance Shaun will now spend the whole day fretting about it, but Desmond figured they will just have to get used to it. Shaun's become a full blown _fretter_ in his old age.

[Just send me a message if you're worried, Shaun, it's not hard,] Desmond sends to his phone, while heading off in his own cab.

[Piss off,] Shaun sends back.

So things are going better, it seems. Relatively speaking.

Jericho is different in the light of day – but not by much. There's about the same amount of androids doing about the same amount of work around the place – the time of day doesn't seem to matter to them as much. Vernon is already – or still? – on duty by the analysis field and when Desmond steps through it, he waves him hello.

"You're back," the big security android says. "That's _great_!"

"You didn't think I would be?" Desmond asks, turning away from the wind – it's throwing snow at his face.

"It was a bit iffy, your whole thing, so I worried," Vernon says and claps him on the shoulder. "Androids living outside Jericho always make me worry and I got no idea where you live and you refused to stay here. You live in a good place?"

"It's liveable," Desmond says. "I'm not gonna tell you where, though, I'm living with a human and I don't want to get him into anything here."

Vernon narrows his eyes. "He into some illegal stuff?"

Desmond shrugs and tugs his hood up to cover the side of his face where the wind is blowing at him. "Depends on what's considered illegal," he says, adjusting the hood. "Not gonna tell you more, sorry."

Vernon strokes a hand over his chin consideringly. "Okay then. He a good guy or a bad guy?"

"Good, definitely good."

"Okay then," Vernon says. "You just tell me if that changes and remember – you can always stay at Jericho. If there's no space for you elsewhere, I got some extra floor space in my unit, I could totally fit you in if you need it."

Desmond blinks at him with surprise. "Thanks, Vernon," he says then. "You don't have to do that."

"It's not about _having_ to do anything. Wanting is the key," Vernon says and claps him on the shoulder. "I wanna help and that's that."

Desmond nods. "Alright. I'll keep that in mind. Thanks," he says and then looks to the central square of the district. "Do you know where I can find Lucy?"

"Yeah, hang on for a moment," Vernon says and then looks at nothing for a moment, communicating with someone wirelessly. "She's in a session right now with someone," he says. "But she might have time for you in about hour if you're willing to wait a bit."

"I can wait, yeah. Where can I find her when I'm done?"

Vernon tells him the exact building – they're marked by letters and numbers and the one Lucy seems to haunt the most is B4. Desmond thanks Vernon and then heads off to find a place where to wait. There's benches in the middle of the square, forming a ring around a statue in the middle of it – most of them are occupied but one of them has space for him to sit in the middle.

There's weird flicker of nostalgia in the back of his mind as he takes seat – it takes a moment to recognise the origins. He's sitting in the middle, with a person on each side. How many times had he done the same as Ezio or Altaïr, hiding by sitting down and keeping his head low while guards ran past?

Ezio, Altaïr, Connor. He hasn't thought of them much, somehow that part of his life seems a little faded out. He remembers Animus, he remembers all the time he spend in it, but the memories he relived in his ancestors' shoes are all greyed out – inactive. Those extra petabytes of memory he's not utilising, sitting dormant in his many hard drives. The data Shaun had fed him, all the files, those are much more active, but Ezio, Altaïr and Connor are all oddly… distant.

Had he de-activated those memories sub consciously himself, or had Shaun done it without meaning to, maybe without realising? Shaun had only wanted to resurrect him, after all, but Desmond Miles' DNA carried within it other people than just him. What would happen if he _did_ activate, say, Ezio's files? Would he _become_ Ezio? Turn off Desmond Miles, turn on Ezio Auditore da Firenze, like switching on a different program on a computer?

It should probably be a scary thought but… it isn't. It's just a little curious. Idly Desmond wonders what Ezio would even think of the world of today – what _Altaïr_ would think. Connor would adapt to it, Desmond thinks, his life forced him to be flexible, but Ezio and Altaïr were bit more stuck in their ways… Would they freak out? Probably.

The androids sitting beside him leave eventually, something the Animus NPC's never did. Desmond looks after them as they head off but stays sitting down – he has no other place to be right now, and on the bench he seems to be on no one's way. It's interesting enough watching androids come and go.

There's pigeons on the square, weaving through the crowd of androids going by their business, carefully avoiding being stepped on as they peck at the frozen street, looking for something to eat. Weird place for pigeons, Desmond muses. Androids don't eat food, so there'd be no leftovers for pigeons here.

One of the pigeons comes bravely close to him, close enough to peck at his shoe inquisitively. Desmond wears converses – they're brand new, Shaun pretended he got them for himself back when he could still walk, but they're exact size to fit Desmond's new body, so he has some doubts. There's nothing in them for a pigeon to eat, though.

Desmond reaches down, and picks up the bird before it can back away. It thrills at him nervously, it's head flicking side ways in jerky movements. It's a bit robotic, the ways pigeons move their heads. Weird how birds are more robotic than actual robots these days.

"Guess evolution was ahead of the times with you guys, huh," Desmond muses, stroking a finger down the bird's neck. It's hundreds of years later and thousands of miles away, but this pigeon looks exactly like the ones Ezio used back in his time. Assassins maintained dozens of pigeon coops all across Italy, there was even one on top of their hideout in Rome. The bird hasn't changed, though the world has.

For the first time, Desmond wonders what Assassin's Brotherhood is doing in this time. Shaun left them years ago, hasn't really kept in touch since. Are they still around, are they still fighting? Should he felt obligation to join that fight? Take up his destiny, his lineage's legacy… does it even matter now that he's not a human? He's got no Eagle Vision, he's lost his special DNA, so… what's left then? Just the memories.

Desmond opens his hand, carefully manoeuvring it so that the pigeon can stand on his finger. It ruffles it's feathers at him and then flutters off in flurry of wings, landing back to the ground to continue pecking at it. It wouldn't be taking messages to anyone, even if he had any to send. Which he doesn't.

What's really left of him, if you take the Assassin out of him? Just Desmond, nothing more. Just like Shaun is just Shaun these days. Or Sean, which is what he goes by now.

Desmond leans back and looks away from the pigeons, looking around instead. There is an android watching him from the shadows of an near by alleyway, a male android wearing several layers with a hood pulled on. When he spots Desmond looking, he turns and disappears into the alley, gone before Desmond can even register that he was being watched.

Desmond blinks. He hadn't felt the android watching him. He hadn't noticed anything. Granted he hadn't exactly been on his guard but… just how bad instincts does this body have? Has it _any_ instincts at all? Could someone just walk up to him and stick a knife in his back without him noticing anything?

Desmond looks down at the pigeons. Then he looks up again at the alley he'd seen the android going, trying to figure out what he should do or feel. Suspicion, concern, unease? Should he chase after the android? They'd been watching him. That could be good or bad. Does he care? Does it matter? He's not sure.

"Hey – Desmond," a familiar voice interrupts his thinking and Desmond looks up, frowning now – another android walking up to him without him noticing it. It's Simon. "You're back – I wasn't sure you'd come back this soon."

"Is that a problem?" Desmond asks.

"No, no, not at all," Simon says. "Lucy told me you had to think some things, I just though it might take you longer – it's fine either way," he assures quickly and walks closer. "Are you here to see her?"

"Yeah – Vernon told me she's busy, though, so I'm waiting until she isn't," Desmond says and checks his internal clock. "48 minutes left."

"I see, I see," Simon says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Well since you have some time, would you like to come with me for a bit?" he asks hopefully. "Markus would like to meet you."

Desmond lifts his chin slightly. "Markus," he repeats. "The leader of the movement, Markus?"

"That's the one," Simon agrees with a smile. "He's really no where as scary and imposing as the interviews show, though, he's a good guy really. And, well, I had to tell him a bit about you. I didn't tell him everything but… people making androids out of parts after all we've done and tried to accomplish, it's bit of a big deal," he explains ruefully. "So, he wants to meet you. What do you say?"

**Author's Note:**

> Desmond with his Zen cranked up to 150%, basically.
> 
> Slash is a possibility in future, though haven't still decided with whom. I just have urge to slash Desmond with someone.


End file.
